


Close To You

by Barbarismbeginsathome



Category: 3 From Hell, House of 1000 Corpses
Genre: Angst, Crying, F/M, Fix-It, Foxy probably watched too much queer eye and thought makeovers fixed lives, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, OOC, Post canon, Queer eye wasn’t a thing yet but still, Shaving, dubcon, except not really, idk man idk, not the sexual kind though, we have a sad white boy on the premesis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:47:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22012051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Barbarismbeginsathome/pseuds/Barbarismbeginsathome
Summary: A remorseful, redeemed Foxy comes offering everything Virgil never asked for.
Relationships: Warden Harper/his wife (Judy?), foxy Coltrane/warden harper
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	1. November, 1992

**Author's Note:**

> Idk what happened but I watched 3 from Hell and here we all are? I feel Like Foxy is the kind of guy who gets in his head that when he’s sorry he can magically fix everything with a couple gestures, so yeah

“What are you doing?” Harper’s voice had lost its quiver since the last time they’d met, and now he was surprised to realize he just sounded tired. 

“Bringing you out of the 70’s and into 1992, that’s what I’m fuckin’ doing. Close those eyes now, it’s a surprise.” 

He could smell blood on the edge of the knife, dried and flaking off. He closed his eyes. 

They fluttered a little at the sound of seams ripping, the cold air hitting his belly, then his chest. He could feel the hair there stand on end and shivered uncomfortably. 

“What are you doing?” He repeated, hating the whiny keen of it. 

“Shh- shhh, don’t fuss. Not gonna hurt ya, I promise,” Coltrane soothed, and it was soothing, after everything. Harper was sure it was a lie, but it was a comforting lie considering who he was talking to. 

“Really not,” he continued, slipping the now-sliced remains of Harper’s shirt off and leaving him cold in the brand new air conditioning. 

“Satin, huh? Shoulda guessed you could still afford better than polyester, what with the settlement and the life insurance and all,” Coltrane mused. “I really am sorry about your missus and the others, by the way. My brother and I don’t have too much in the way of restraint when we’re together. Kinda why I went solo. Gonna make it up to you, though.” 

Harper could hear him rummaging through the closet. 

“Ain’t you got any t-shirts? Come on now- oh, what’s this?” 

Harper heard Coltrane’s lumbering doorsteps on the shag carpeting coming closer, then felt one of the soft, over-washed shirts from the depths of his wardrobe being pushed over his head and arms. 

“Didn’t figure you for a Rush fan. Guess you got taste after all, huh? Now here, stand up. I’m gonna let you get outta those fuckin’ used car salesman pants and into your jeans on your own, but don’t open your eyes. Don’t worry, I’m not lookin’.” 

Coltrane pushed the wadded fabric of his weekend lazy jeans into his hands. Harper was afraid to look, but he heard Coltrane turning and hoped he was honest, at least this once. Part of him wouldn’t have minded so much for the other to see, but he was too tired to think much about that. 

He tripped over a hole in the left leg and was nervous when Coltrane caught him- “I’m sorry, hand to God my eyes are closed.” 

For some reason, Harper didn’t doubt him. He zipped and buttoned the fly and stood, arms crossed and eyes shut tight, awaiting instruction as if this was a game of blind man’s bluff. 

He’d always cheated at that as a kid, not that he was taking chances now. 

“Good. Have a seat at the dressing table now, I’ll lead ya. No looking. This yours originally or the uh, former lady of the house’s?” Coltrane was lifting up tins of pomade, bottles of cologne. 

Harper’s stomach turned. “Mine... wedding present. She used to laugh at me, preening all the time.” He bit his lip, trying not to cry or be sick or both. It wasn’t his fault, he’d come to terms with that. Everyone from his friends to his therapist had told him so. It was Coltrane’s and the other two whose names he’d tried to forget. And now here he was. 

Coltrane was quiet for awhile, then cleared his throat and pat Harper’s shoulder. “Real sorry, I mean it. It don’t fuckin’ take it back, but I do.” 

He paused for a beat, then went back to rummaging around the vanity, humming softly to himself- or maybe to Harper. Fucking “Close To You-“ the goddamn Carpenters. Harper almost laughed, turning it into a cough on its way out. 

“A-ha.” The humming stopped momentarily as Coltrane closed a drawer, finding what he was looking for. 

“Don’t move,” he instructed, sounding more excited than threatening. Harper heard the water running in his bathroom sink, then a towel being wrung out. 

“Hold real still,” Coltrane murmured, turning Harper to face him in the swiveling chair. 

Harper felt the rough hand touching his face, two fingers gently stretching out the curl of his mustache. It was a stupid thing, he knew that, but he couldn’t fathom getting rid of it. He’d had it forever, loved it. She’d loved it. 

“Oh, don’t...” he protested tiredly, but it was too late. He held still as Coltrane took it away from him, piece by piece, then shaved his face clean. He even took the sideburns, which was around the time Harper started to cry.

“Shit- don’t do that, it’s okay! Please don’t do that... you can open your eyes! Supposed to be fuckin’ nice- don’t cry, Virgil, come on...” Coltrane cleaned his face with the wet towel, which had long since gone cold. He tried to wipe Harper’s tears, but the gate was open and Harper couldn’t stop himself. 

Coltrane led him to sit down on the chaise lounge near the bed and took him into his arms. Harper hated how badly he wanted to be held. He let Coltrane wrap him in his comforter, hum the same stupid song to him. 

“I fucking hate you,” he sobbed while Coltrane stroked his cheek. 

“Yeah,” Coltrane agreed. “Got every right. Your family....” he trailed off. “Get some rest. I’ll be gone long before you wake up, don’t worry. Only ruined the one shirt, by the way. I know you probably think I’m a fuckin’ liar and I am, but I was... I really did want to help.” 

Harper sniffled. His voice was hoarse from crying, and he felt his eyelids getting heavy. 

“I was a horrible fucking husband, you know,” he declared. “But I - but I loved her. A-and she loved me.” 

Coltrane sighed and looked away, ashamed, Harper hoped. 

Harper’s hair was sticking to his forehead with sweat, and he didn’t mind too much when Coltrane smoothed it away from his face.  
“Just gettin’ it out of your eyes, don’t be scared,” he said softly. He kept at it for awhile, stroking Harper’s hair and drying the last of his tears. Harper felt himself drift closer to sleep, allowing himself to imagine it was her playing with his hair and talking to him about her day, just like she used to. 

“I am gonna make it better for you someday,” Coltrane said. 

“Doubt it,” Harper mumbled, but didn’t object when Coltrane tucked the comforter around him as he left. 

“Mark my goddamn words, Mr. Mustache- Virgil.” 

He closed the bedroom door softly behind him, letting Harper sleep.


	2. October, 1993

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’ll be okay.

He didn’t really work anymore. They’d actually let him come back at his usual salary for a little while- as a “sorry your wife and friends died” consolation prize, really. He didn’t have any real power anymore beyond paperwork considering the whole “workers dying on his watch and letting a prisoner free” thing, but it was a nice gesture. 

Then he’d stopped being able to breathe in the middle of his “welcome back” meeting, which landed him on indefinite paid administrative leave. 

It was called a panic attack, the therapist- her name was Dr. Bell- told him. He liked her. She reminded him of his aunt Maryanne and didn’t press him too much about coming in suddenly clean shaven last year. 

He’d had a few more panic attacks since then, but not too many. He didn’t get overwhelmed very often in this new life. Routines were good. Grocery store on Monday, takeout on Friday, television with the dog every evening. 

The dog was a big, tough looking mutt Harper had initially adopted for peace of mind, but it was clear as soon as she came home that she’d be useless against anything that wasn’t a sock monster or a tennis ball. He named her Molly. 

Tonight she was curled up on the couch with him, staring dutifully at tonight’s rerun of The A-Team as if she expected a pop quiz. Harper ruffled her fur as he walked to throw his trash away, then paused at the hall mirror- old habits died hard. 

He ran his hands through his grown-out hair, which looked more grunge than (what had Coltrane said?) used car salesman these days. The mustache was back, of course, though he rarely gelled the ends these days. The sideburns grew long and bushy, hiding enough of his face that he felt safe going to the store or the movies. 

He’d thought, in brief moments before falling asleep or idly in the shower, about dating again. Dr. Bell had even encouraged it, if he felt ready. 

He hadn’t actually dated anyone since his wife- office hookups weren’t dates, really, and thinking about how he’d treated them and his wife was enough to turn him off the whole idea. Anyway, what was he supposed to say? “Hi, I’m Virgil Dallas, an ex-serial cheater with more emotional baggage than the check-in at JFK, wanna get coffee?” 

It was a thought, though, and it kept him company when he got too lonely. He wasn’t as lonely as people might think, he guessed. He was blessed with a new fear of intimacy, sure, but most of the time he was okay. Okay wasn’t quite happy, but it was much better than terrible, which is how he’d felt for most of the past five years. 

He returned to the living room, presenting an elated Molly with a piece of deli turkey from the fridge. She was too occupied to notice the slight sound at the door, not that she would anyway.

Harper froze for a second, goosebumps forming all over. He shook his head quickly, trying not to panic. Late mail, he thought, or one of his Jesus freak neighbors leaving another church flyer. 

He tentatively opened the door, looked around, and quickly grabbed the small envelope sitting in the middle of his welcome mat. 

He could breathe again once the door closed, but that stopped once he read the scribbled writing- “Mr. Mustache,” that stupid fucking playground nickname, no return address. He closed his eyes and debated opening it at all, remembering all the emotions of that little visit the previous year. 

He was, at least, fairly confident that Coltrane didn’t want to hurt him, at least not physically. Whatever was inside, though...

Molly trotted up to him curiously, nuzzling against his hand. He absently pet the top of her head, and ripped the envelope open without thinking. Three smaller slips of paper fluttered out. Harper picked them up quickly before Molly could lap them up and contract Christ knew what kind of disease. 

He held the papers close and read the one in the middle, a note. “Hey, Virge. Next month?” On either side were two tickets to Rush in Manhattan. Harper wasn’t sure whether to scream or laugh as he walked the papers to the kitchen and promptly threw them away. 

He pulled his blanket tight around himself as he sat down, letting Molly cuddle up to his lap. He breathed slowly, rhythmically, as the TV’s comforting drone filled his ears. He’d be okay, he thought. He’d have to pray Coltrane could take the hint this time, but he’d still be okay. For once, he felt confident about that.


End file.
